


Sixteenth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sherlock's birthday but their date is interrupted by a rather unpleasant encounter.<br/>Sorry, no smut today, just fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteenth

It’s the 6th of January, and John Watson is a patient man. 

It had started to snow – a rarity in London and, despite the calendar announcing it’s winter, icy weather always seems to descent on a totally unprepared city. Traffic is hellish in London most of the times but snow brings it to a halt entirely, even the mere 2 inches that have fallen just until now.

Anyway, Sherlock would have been late regardless – he’s most of the times when they have agreed to meet for dinner, as eating ranks not very high on his priority scale. His timekeeping (without John to constantly remind him, before yelling at him and finally dragging him along to their appointment) is notoriously poor and observing anniversaries is an equally dull and sentimental social obligation he very much tries to circumvent. Even if it is his own birthday.

John isn’t actually sure Sherlock knows why they are dining this evening at The Claridge. He’d just raised an eyebrow when John informed him that he’d reserved a table for 8.30.  


“Pretty expensive, don’t you think?” he’d asked, before leaving for Bart’s. Molly had announced a surprise for him and John really hadn’t wanted to know.

“Maybe, but I was told that the food is usually excellent - well worth a visit for a special occasion.” John had smiled; Sherlock had just shrugged and pulled on his coat.

But, of course, as it turned 8.30, there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes. John was sitting alone at his table, sipping water, crumbling bread and playing with his mobile. He wasn’t concerned that Sherlock could have forgotten him – even as some of the other guests eyed the lonely man dressed up in his best suit, who was obviously waiting for someone, with a mixture of pity and mischief – instead, he assumed that some kind of experiment had kept the detective at Bart’s. He promised himself to text Molly at 8.45 to gently remind Sherlock of his commitment. If that didn’t work, he’d call the man himself – but dignity demanded (for both of them) to be patient and at least allow for a late arrival. They knew each other quite well by now, after all.

At 8.40, he received a text:

_“Molly offered three floaters for Picric acid experiments. Results spectacular!”_ Attached was a photo of a slimy brown-reddish mass, speckled with white dots, that reminded John faintly of minced beef. He on the spot decided to go for something vegetarian tonight, perhaps a salad or pasta. The text continued: _“Obviously had to clean up a bit. Will come asap. I’ll take: Starter: Portland crab, pickled red dulse and oyster, fennel juice, Main course: Belted Galloway beef, king oyster mushroom, cauliflower, watercress, bone marrow, Dessert: Salted chocolate, jasmine, milk crisp and caramel. Wine: Order Laurent Perrier to go with the starter, the 2010 Chateauneuf du Pape for the beef (not the 2008!) and the 1989 Madeira for dessert.”_

That thoroughly instructed, John summoned a waiter to take his orders. “Can you wait, though, until my … company arrives?”

“Of course, Sir. Can I serve the Champagne now, to shorten the wait.”

“Well, go ahead then.” Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself as well, while Sherlock enthusiastically scrubbed human debris off a stainless steel stretcher?

“John? John Watson?” A raised voice inquired, just as he texted Sherlock that he’d placed his elaborate order, so he could take his time. John also told him that he'll start on the Champagne anyway.

John raised his head and encountered a tall, vaguely familiar man roughly his age, dressed in an evening suite, smiling at him. His dark hair was obviously meticulously dyed (John had picked up some observational skills from Sherlock after all) and his skin sported a tan just this side of a bit too artificial to be natural. He was accompanied by a way too thin (at least for John’s liking) blond in a short red cocktail dress, at least 20 years his junior. The man looked expectantly, the woman bored and a little bit indignant.  


John wrecked his brain to put a name to the face. His confusion must have shown, though, for the man laughed some more and shook his head. “John Watson, don’t you remember me? Percy Phelps! We were at school together.”

“Of course!” John had a faint, but nevertheless rather unpleasant memory of an arrogant teenager with a questionable taste in music, whom he’d one term sat next to in … Maths? Or had it been English? It was such a long time ago.

But as Sherlock hadn't rubbed off on him enough to forget his manners – even towards involuntary met, long forgotten old school mates – he asked: “Well, Percy, what are you up to these days?”

“Oh, I work for the foreign office.” It sounded rather boasting.

“Really?” John had no idea what to say to that. Since he was sharing his flat with the baby brother of the British government, his views on the political class that allegedly ruled the country had been altered quite a bit. Nevertheless, he was aware that a comment was expected, so he went for the widely accepted hollow phrase: “That sounds interesting.”

“It is,” Percy confirmed proudly, while his plus one looked positively bored stiff. “Most of it is covered by the officials secrets act, though, you know, foreign diplomacy, shenanigans with MI5 and MI6. I would really liked to talk about it but than I'll have to kill you afterwards.” Percy Phelps laughed heartily at his own joke. It was a slightly disconcerting noise.

'I'd like to see you try', John thought to himself but smiled back and just nodded.

“How about you, John? Last thing I heard, you joined the army.”

“Yes, that's true. RAMC.” In John's experience, monosyllabic answers drove most people away rather sooner than later.

“Wow, okay. You still with the military?”

“No, I retired. Got shot.”

“Percy, can't we get our table now? I'm simply _dying_ for a cocktail,” the woman on his arm complained in a nasal whine, sounding very posh and upper class.

“It's not ready yet, honey. Despite, I just ran into an old mate. Mind if we take a seat? You seem to be… on your own?” His voice was full of false concern.

“Actually, I'm waiting for someone...”

But Percy Phelps had just offered a chair to his escort, before taking a seat himself. John sighed inwardly.

“Well, we won't keep you long. Just a little chat for old time's sake, eh?” The man actually nudged his elbow. John asked himself if he'd pat his back next.

At this precise moment, the champagne arrived. The waiter seemed slightly irritated as to the new arrivals, until John signalled him with a swift gesture to wait pouring their glasses. John would be damned if he offered the twit even a tiny sip from his 120 quid bottle.

“Wow, Laurent Perrier. Not bad, old chap. Must be a very special date.” Percy winked at him, smiling saucily, his voice dripping with inept innuendo. The woman overtly rolled her eyes at him. What a lovely couple, John thought.

“Birthday,” he felt obliged to clarify.

“Of course. So, you found yourself someone?”

“Yes.”  


“Someone… special?”

“Oh yes!” John couldn't stifle a smile.

“So, civilian life suits you? You know what, we always need good, reliable men. Perhaps I could put a word into the right ear, what you reckon?” Phelps offered rather patronising.

“I really appreciate your effort but ...”

“Please, no false modesty!” Phelps cut John short, assuming he was flattered by the overture. “It's the least I can do for an old friend. Why don't you pop round my office in Whitehall tomorrow, so we can sort something out?” He sounded like a man not used to be turned down. His company had started to twirl a curl of her hair around her finger, gazing into nothingness.

John assumed his best way out of this would be a vague and uncommitted assent, so he smiled and nodded again, looking quite obvious down at his phone. Where the hell was Sherlock?

“Well, I hope it's worth the wait.” And there came the expected pat on the back. John nearly flinched.

“Why don't you find out for yourself?” With that, John rose, as Sherlock finally approached the table. His curls shone wet and glossy from melted snow and his cheeks were flushed a delicate pink from the cold outside. The detective eyed John's company scornful before looking questioningly at his flatmate, who just shrugged before leaning in, taking Sherlock by the back of his neck, pulling him into a casual kiss. 

“Happy birthday, love,” John whispered against Sherlock's extravagant lips. Sherlock smiled back at him, before murmuring: “Thank you. Nice of you to bother.”

“Always.”

John was aware that two jaws had dropped at their table; Sherlock, of course, was quite oblivious to it. He took a seat and poured John and himself some Champagne. As they clinked glasses, profoundly ignoring their unwelcome guests; Percy actually harrumphed to get their attention.

“Well, John, no wife and kids then?” He had the nerve to shoot Sherlock a poignant look.

John just grinned back. “Sorry, may I introduce you? Sherlock, this is an old school mate of mine. Percy Phelps and his… niece?”

“Fiancée!” The woman snarled.

“Sorry, entirely my mistake.” John's smile broadened. “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good evening.” Sherlock gave a short nod.

“Holmes? Now wait, that name rings a bell...,” Phelps mused.

“Percy's with the foreign office. He just offered me a job.” John filled Sherlock in, relishing Percy's obvious discomfort. Phelps looked rather taken aback at the mention of his offer from mere five minutes ago.

“Did he?” Sherlock asked totally unimpressed, eyeing the man up and down.

“Perhaps I'll get to become a proper spy, after all.” John elaborated sardonically.

Percy coughed. “Don't expect it to be all James Bond style, you know. Mostly, it's just desk work...” It was quite a sight to watch the pompous git back-paddling.

“That's precisely what my brother Mycroft always tells me.” Sherlock amended very bored.

“Oh, perhaps you actually know Sherlock's brother Mycroft? He's a minor government official… as well.”

Phelps paled noticeable at the mention of that name. “Oh, yes, I have met Mycroft Holmes. He's... very professional.”

“Isn't he?” Sherlock smiled coldly. “May you excuse us now? I have to tell John about my most extraordinary day.” He sounded quite camp. John giggled.

“What? Did you have a chai latte, then went shopping for some Armani designer wear?” Percy couldn't hide his contemptuous disgust.

“Actually, I blew up three bodies who had been fished out of the Thames over the previous weeks. As they had been in varying states of decomposition, the results have been quite unforeseeable. The oldest cadaver didn't even explode properly, it merely liquefied and melted, due to the high proportion of adipocere that had accumulated around it. I filmed all of it to document the process. Would you like to watch?” Sherlock's face beamed with an eerie grin.

John nodded enthusiastically while the young woman looked positively sick and Percy squirmed uneasy in his seat.

“I think our table is ready now,” he announced, getting up. He and his girlfriend made their way over to the bar.

“What an unbearable twat!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock smirked. “It's always so nice to meet your friends.”

“Now, you are one to talk. Your acquaintances either smoke crack or strangle people.”

“Don't be so narrow minded. At least they are not boring.”

“True enough.”

Their first course arrived.

“You chose the salad?” Sherlock inquired.

“I think I turned vegetarian, thanks to your experiments.”

Sherlock snorted, then dug in on his molluscs before looking up again, watching John. After hesitating a short moment, he tentatively inquired: "The kissing, though...?"

"Well, it was about time, don't you think?" John intensely concentrated on his greens. As he got no answer, he finally looked up to find Sherlock frowning.

"So, is there more to expect when we return home?" Sherlock asked plainly.

"Well, as it is your birthday..."

Eventually, Sherlock smiled his real, warm smile. "This whole birthday thing starts to appeal to me."

"Glad to be of service", John replied.


End file.
